The Beginning of an End
by Aelfay Sparrow
Summary: John and Sherlock officially meet one of their biggest enemies. Sequel to A Small Change and Nightmares, based on The Great Game.
1. Chapter 1

**Right. Some housekeeping things:**

**A) This is a sequel to ****_A Small Change_**** and ****_Nightmares_****, so if you haven't read those... you may want to.**

**B) I changed my upload days to Saturdays. Probably best if you check back on Sundays. Or subscribe!**

**C) I got sick of trying to figure out chapter titles without being cheesy, so I'm going with the old standard of one, two, three. **

**D) Enjoy! All comments, etc. are treasured and loved. **

* * *

"So," John said when he got home the next day. "Enjoying your days off?"

Sherlock glared at him from the sofa, then flopped her head back into the very picture of despair. "I'm so _bored_, John!"

"Yes, well, not all of us actually look forward to murders, thanks, Sherlock," John said, hanging up his coat and toeing off his shoes, then shivering and rubbing his arms. "It's freezing in here, didn't you think to light a fire?"

Sherlock gave him a look and he shook his head. "Of course you didn't. The fireplace is a whole two metres away, it would be too much for you, of course." She scowled at him and turned toward the back of the sofa and curled up.

"Haven't you got an experiment going, or something?" John asked as he grabbed a log and opened the flu.

"Finished that," Sherlock said morosely. "It was a good one, too. The effects of acid when pumped into the lungs."

John nodded, then looked up and blinked for a moment. "That - oh, god, that's what that pink stuff was in the sink, wasn't it. You couldn't keep it to your own kitchen, could you?"

"I needed a control sample," Sherlock replied, and John sighed, setting the log in the fireplace and pulling a lighter off the mantle, flicking it on to start the paper wrapping ablaze.

"Hold on," he said as he stood to put the lighter back on the mantle. "Is that a skull?"

Sherlock didn't deign to reply to that.

"It's a real skull. You've put a bloody skull on my mantle."

"_Our_ mantle," Sherlock said, and John sighed again, rubbing his forehead and turning to glare at her.

"Couldn't you text Lestrade? Ask for some cold cases?" he offered, realizing slowly that Sherlock off a case was going to be far worse than Sherlock in the midst of one.

"Did. He won't give me any," she said, tugging on her curls.

"Why not?"

"He was being an idiot."

"And you told him so," John said, and tilted his head back, then shook himself and walked to the kitchen. "Tea. I need tea to handle this."

"Two sugars!" Sherlock called after him. 

* * *

"We could go on another walk."

"No."

"I could get you started on _Doctor Who_."

"No."

"You could hack into Mycroft's accounts and spend half the UK's budget on cherries?" John said sarcastically, but Sherlock's eyes were bright as she turned to look at him.

"Really?"

"No," he said quickly, and her face fell.

"You could see what happens to worms after you inject them with HGH," he finally said after a moment. Sherlock flopped over onto her other side and gave him an appraising look.

"What would be the point of that?"

John shrugged. "Find out what happens, see if less complicated life forms can process human hormones, and if they have the same effect."

"Worms aren't less complicated, John. That's like saying an iPad is less complicated than a computer in the early sixties, just because the computer was as big as a room and the iPad's all small." Sherlock rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling.

"Yes, well, in a way the computer was more complicated, just because it was less efficient," John pointed out, and Sherlock looked at him out of the corner of her eyes.

"Are you saying worms are more efficient than humans?"

Frowning, John thought it over. "From a purely biological perspective, I suppose they do all the same things humans do - digestion, respiration, circulation - in a much smaller space."

"Yes, but one might argue that humans have the same degree of efficiency, because it takes more work when the being is larger," Sherlock argued back. "With the added benefits of cognitive thought processes and opposable thumbs."

"Touché," John conceded. Sherlock hopped off the couch and went into her room, slamming the door.

"Where are you going?" he asked when she came out, tying her scarf over her coat.

"To get some worms," she said, and swept out the door. John sighed. 

* * *

John was regretting having suggested the worm project with every fibre of his being.

Worms in the sink were fine. Hell, worms in the refrigerator and freezer were fine. But when some got loose and he was finding them under his bed, or in the shower, he drew the line.

"Sherlock, I _hate_ your worms," he said on the third day, walking out of the bathroom with a towel round his hips and his hair dripping suds down his back, holding a large, frantic earthworm between two fingers and dropping it on her lap. She frowned at it and the wet smudge it was making on her trousers.

"Not much of a change," she muttered. "I need to find a different method of application. It seems injecting some didn't work; perhaps putting them in a box of soil that is moistened with a solution of it?"

"I don't care," John told her, "Just keep them out of my bedroom, and away from my shower."

Sherlock looked up at him. "You've got some soap, there," she said, and gestured around her whole head to demonstrate, and John nearly growled as he stomped his way back into the shower.

When he came back out, dressed and washed thoroughly this time, Sherlock had found a large storage container and was dumping worms into it, along with a couple of bags of potting soil.

"Where'd you get the dirt?" he asked, and she shrugged.

"Called Mycroft and told him you were threatening to move out if I didn't have a place to keep my worms. He came by with this stuff."

John pursed his lips and looked at the box, then at the woman who was rapidly filling it with squirming animals, still in her jim-jams. "You seem fine with calling him when _you_ want something. Wait, why would he care if I moved out?"

Sherlock gave him a look as she dumped another box of worms into the container. "Because you talk to him and keep me in check, probably. Hand me that watering can?"

John looked behind him to see that there was, indeed, a watering can on the floor next to him, and he passed it over, watching as Sherlock poured several vials of what looked like HGH suspension for injections into the water that was already in the can, and sloshed it around a bit. The worms she'd dumped into the container of dirt were burrowing into the soil frantically, and he pitied them for a moment before Sherlock began to 'water' them enthusiastically with her mixture.

"I'm not certain this counts as 'keeping you in check', Sherlock," he admitted as she got impatient and turned the watering can all the way over, soaking the worms in the middle.

"Don't be ridiculous, John, I was much worse before you came along," she said dismissively, and tossed the watering can behind her as she stared at the small animals with intensity, as if expecting them to suddenly swell to twice their size within a minute.

"I don't want to imagine it, god," John groaned, and collapsed on the sofa to pull his laptop close. To his surprise it was already on, and he frowned. "Sherlock, this is _my_ laptop. Yours is _right there_," he emphasized, pointing at her laptop, which sat on her table in her lab.

"Yours was closer," was all she said, bouncing up to look over his shoulder. "Why, did something new pop up?"

"I don't even know what this _is_," he complained, and Sherlock grabbed his hand, batting it away from the trackpad and leaning over him so she could click on something.

"There's been a murder in Belarus," she exclaimed. "I'm going."

"Right," John said, and settled himself back into the sofa. "I'm not."

"Of course not, John, there's no point to us both going until we know whether it's worth our time. I'll go and if it's good I'll text."

"What? Who says I'd come?" John asked, and Sherlock rolled her eyes.

"You'd come, John, don't be obvious. I'll see you tomorrow," she said, and John ignored the way her door slammed firmly behind her as she went to go get changed, because John had no doubt that when she'd said she was going, she meant _now_, and she'd be hailing a cab to Heathrow within the next ten minutes.

* * *

John decided he didn't like the quiet when Sherlock was gone, and found himself an impressive playlist of cello music online, putting the volume high. He tried typing up their latest case, but got stuck on the title. _Killed in Sequence? Alphabetically Anhillated? An Orderly Obliteration?_

He stared at Sherlock's worms and frowned, then got up to put on a jacket and send Greg a text.

**I'm bored, you wanna meet at the pub?**

**Sure. There's been no new cases and I'm tired of paperwork**, was the reply, and after a moment of negotiation they'd figured out where they were meeting and John could get out of the far-too-quiet flat.

* * *

The pub was noisy. John looked around, blinking a bit at the change from silent flat to boistrous pub, and saw Lestrade waving him over with a hand. He forced his way through a couple of groups and finally made it over to the corner booth where Greg sat, sitting across from him and smiling. Lestrade pushed a beer at him. "Drink. I've been waiting for you to show before I started on mine."

"Long day, was it?" John asked wryly, and Greg chuckled and groaned at the same time, rubbing his hands over his face.

"I've had nothing to do but paperwork for the past four days, if I have to sign my name one more ruddy time my hand's gonna fall off... how are you holding up?"

John shrugged, taking a sip of his beer before replying. "I was doing fine until the worm experiment, and then - well, not so much."

"Found your blog," the DI said, and John nearly spat out his next sip of beer. "Oh, shut up mate, it was good! Interesting. Is that what it's like on the other side, then?"

"Other side of what?" John asked, and Lestrade grinned at him, eyes twinkling.

"On the other side of Sherlock. All we get is the prickly side."

"Hey, she behaved for you the other day," John protested, but Greg shook his head.

"Only cause you told her to. She's a sight worse than that most days, it's like she actually cares about you or sommat. Anderson and Sally have a bet that you're shagging."

John set down his beer, realizing this was a talk where drinking would most likely lead to either choking or covering Greg in beer, and he didn't fancy either option. "We're not together."

Lestrade nodded and took a swig of his own beer. "Yeah, _I_ know that, but _they_ don't, and it's not like they're going to believe me, are they?"

Groaning, John let his head thunk against the back of the booth. "Brilliant. My life has been demoted to a Scotland Yard soap opera."

"Oh, be good to yourself, you're at least a crime drama," Lestrade teased, and John whacked him lightly with the drinks menu.

"Shut it. At this rate I'm never gonna get a boyfriend, Sherlock's already scared one off."

"Yeah, Dimmock told me about that. Swing both ways, do you?"

John shrugged, looking down at his beer, more than aware how his preferences could be taken by others. "My sister's gay," he confessed. "Makes you think outside the box. Not that I don't like women," he hastened to explain. "I've just always gotten on better with blokes." Greg grinned, and John smiled back, feeling comfortable enough to confide, "I think Harry scarred me, really."

Lestrade's eyes held their normal twinkle as he replied, "Eh, no judgements here, mate. I liked a girl, and look where it's got me." John tilted his head, and Greg sighed, setting his drink on a coaster. "It's nothing, sorry I brought it up."

"Right, yeah, sure," John said, shaking his head. "Let it out. I've already half-strangled you once, I owe you a beer night and sob story at least."

Lestrade gave him a quick, appreciative smile before sighing. "Found out - before this last case - my wife's been - ah - enjoying - her friendship with a bloke at work, even after the counselling."

John knew saying nothing was sometimes better than saying anything at all, so he stayed quiet while Greg stared into his glass for a bit, then he took a long gulp before continuing, "And it's just that I thought we'd finally had this figured out, you know? But then I get this unexpected time off, and she's getting all frustrated because it means I'll have a night home on 'book club night', and I asked why she couldn't stay home, and, well, _that_ was a mistake, because then it all blew up in my face. I've spent the past two nights at Scotland Yard, and I think I'll probably have to get my own flat soon, because I'm a bit worn out, to tell the truth of it."

Draining his glass, Lestrade let his head rest against the panelled wood of the booth, and John pushed his own glass - still mostly full - across the table. Greg raised his eyebrows. "You don't want it?" he asked, and John shook his head.

"Sister showed up pissed at my place a couple days ago. Mostly came out for the company, not the beer."

"Where's Sherlock? Not that I can't see reasons why you'd want company aside from her," Lestrade asked, pulling John's glass into his hand and tracing a hand down the condensation on the side of it.

"She's in... Russia. I think. I forget. She got an email and rushed off."

"Huh. Must have gotten a private case," the DI said. "Cheers to her, then. She's probably thrilled." He lifted his glass and John nodded back to the toast.

"Makes it a bit quiet, it's weird. I'm used to her being up at all times and playing her bloody cello. And there's a box of worms sitting in the middle of the sitting room," John elaborated, and Greg raised an eyebrow at him.

"Yeah, did you ever get her to move her stuff into her own place?"

"No," John said morosely, "Her brother came in and remodelled the place. It's all one large flat, now."

Lestrade gaped. "You're kidding. The fit fellow in a suit?" John raised an eyebrow at him, and he grinned. "What? You're not the only one who can play for both teams." John shuddered.

"All the same, it's _Mycroft,_" he said, and Greg snorted.

"Their parents must have had some kind of vendetta," he said, chuckling slightly, and John grinned, just glad he'd gotten the DI's mind off his wife for a moment.

"I know, the names sound like Bond villains. Speaking of which, I got Sherlock to watch Bond the other day."

"You didn't." Greg's eyes widened, impressed. "How'd you manage that?"

Shrugging, John answered, "Sat down in the same room and started watching. Knew she'd get curious enough to start looking over my shoulder after a bit."

Lestrade chuckled. "You know her far better than I do already, mate."

John didn't really know what to say to that.

Eventually John had to go home and Lestrade went back to the office to avoid his wife. He'd invited the DI home, but been refused because "You keep talking about ruddy worms, mate, and I'm not gonna risk it. Bloody hell, what if that growth hormone works?"

Which John had to admit was a pretty frightening, if improbable, thought.

Still, the flat was too quiet, and even with the music it was hard to get to sleep, so he made a fire and curled up on his bed with a book, feeling the flat slowly warm and trying to distract himself from the utter _loneliness_ of being alone, and, after a couple of long hours, fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

John had to shop on the way home from work, which was miserable, because since he'd stopped using Sherlock's money his finances were becoming increasingly tight. Still, his first paycheck had arrived, Simon handing it to him with a flourish, and John had no excuse not to go shopping.

So to Tesco's he went, grumbling all the way.

The shopping was pretty quick, all things considered, though he had to skip on a couple of favourite snacks that cost just a bit over his budget. Still, he could have done worse, and he was actually starting to feel better about his day and life in general until he started up the stairs and heard gunshots.

"Sherlock!" he shouted, dropping the bags and bolting up the stairs, only to see that the door was open and his _bloody_ flatmate was shooting the _bloody_ wall.

"What the _hell_ are you doing?" he shouted at her, and she muttered at him.

"What?" he asked, and she whirled.

"Bored!" she shouted, shooting the wall - she'd sprayed a smiley-face into it, and was now shooting round the edges. "Bored, bored!" She was shooting from behind her back now, and the smiley-face had eyes. "Don't know what's got into the criminal classes," she muttered, dropping her hand, and John darted forward to rip his gun from her fingers and look it over before shoving it into his trousers. "Good thing I'm not one of them."

"So you, what, you take it out on the wall? My wall!" John replied angrily, poking his finger through the hole that now connected his room and the sitting room.

"Couldn't shoot mine, you could peek. The wall had it coming," Sherlock muttered, and John flexed his hands.

"What, so my privacy doesn't mean anything? What about that case in Russia?" he stomped outside to retrieve his bags, hauling them back in quickly before Sherlock could get up to much more trouble.

"Belarus. Open and shut domestic murder, not worth my time."

"Oh, poor you," John muttered, opening his fridge to put the milk in, and then closing it again. "Oh, fuck. Sherlock!"

"Tea for me, thanks," she called back.

"No, Sherlock, there's a heart in my fridge. A_ heart_. What did I say about my fridge?"

"There was no room in mine, where else was I supposed to put it? I got it from Bart's. I want to see how the heart muscle contracts around iron after death."

John used a plastic bag as a makeshift glove and shoved the heart aside, wiping the shelf with bleach quickly before setting his milk next to it, grimacing.

"Read your blog," Sherlock said from her spot on the couch.

"Really? Nice to hear you finally got round to it," John said stroppily.

"Yes. _A Case Study_?"

"It was a case. There was a case. It centred round a case, Sherlock," John said, feeling defensive.

"Apparently," Sherlock answered, sounding bored again, now. John recognized that sort of boredom; it was the painful kind that he'd felt the other day with Harry, and he felt a stab of sympathy, putting the last of the groceries away and walking into the sitting room.

"So, ah, did you like it?" he asked, and Sherlock glared at him in response.

"No," she replied, and he frowned.

"Why not? I thought you'd be, well, flattered."

"The first one wasn't bad, I admit, but the second one - flattering, John? _Sherlock can see through anyone and anything in seconds, but what amazes me most is how incredibly ignorant she can be about some things_."

"Hold on, I didn't mean -"

"Oh, I see," Sherlock said, sitting up and rubbing her curls rather like an angry cat. "You meant 'incredibly ignorant' in an _nice_ way. Look, it doesn't matter to me who's... President, or who's sleeping with whom, or even who ruddy James Bond is! So the earth goes round the sun - it's hardly_ important_."

"Not important!" John said incredulously. "I can see the celebrity bit, and even Bond, but Sherlock, that's... that's _primary school science_."

"Well, if I ever knew it, I deleted it."

"Yes, you keep saying that, what do you mean, you _deleted_ it?" John asked.

"Look, this - this is my hard drive, yeah?" Sherlock pointed at her own head. "So it only makes sense to keep things on it that are _useful_, really useful, so other things don't get pushed out, or covered up. Ordinary people can't get to the things that _matter_ because they fill their hard drives with all kinds of rubbish."

John nodded slowly. It kind of made sense, thinking of how his mum had always had about sixteen toolbars and could never figure out which one was Google. Still -

"But it's the _solar system_!" he finally burst out, and Sherlock groaned loudly, burying her head in her hands.

"Dammit, John, it doesn't _matter_! I couldn't care less if we went round the moon, or 'round and 'round the garden, like a teddy bear, it's all the _same_ to me. What matters, to me, is the work. And without it, my brain _eats itself_." She ruffled her curls until they were sticking up all over. "Put that in your blog. Or, better yet, stop sharing your opinions of me with the world."

John opened his mouth, shut it, then opened it again. "Right," he said, getting up and checking his jacket pockets for his keys, wallet and phone.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, twisting herself round from where she'd curled up pouting on the couch again.

"Out, I need some air," John said shortly, and nearly bumped into Mrs. Hudson on the way out, stomping away from the flat angrily.

* * *

**I'd just like to say that the support for this story has already been incredible; the amount of follows has been truly humbling. Thank you for reading and following my work, I really, truly appreciate it. **


	3. Chapter 3

John spent the night at Simon's.

He'd thought about getting a hotel room for the night, but that was too hard on his dwindling bank accounts, and then he thought of calling up Lestrade, but figured his family situation probably didn't allow for John; he was probably still sleeping at the Met tonight, poor bloke.

So, Simon's it was. Luckily, Simon was more than sympathetic to the 'I need to get away from Sherlock for a bit' excuse, and opened up his sofa for the night without question.

'Course, John wished he'd opened up his _bed_, but he wasn't about to complain. A place to sleep was a place to sleep, and if he didn't actually get much rest, well, that was his own fault, wasn't it?

Wincing as he worked the crick out of his neck, he smiled at Simon as he walked in the room, then winced again as the turn of his head made his neck twinge, putting a hand up to it and rubbing the sore muscle.

"See? Told you, you should have tried the Li-Lo," Simon teased, sitting on the side of the couch and grabbing the remote to turn on the telly across from John.

"Ah, no, it's fine, it was all... fine," John assured him, watching the lady on the telly prattle on about some painting and how it was supposed to be from some old master.

"Maybe next time I'll let you, I dunno, kip at the end of my bed or something," Simon said, grinning at him.

"And the time after that?" John grinned back.

"D'you want some breakfast?" Simon asked him, and John nodded, at which the man smirked and hopped off the couch. "Well, you'd better go make it, because I'm gonna have a shower."

John chuckled as Simon walked away, looking back at the telly in order to get his neck into an easier position.

"... The explosion was supposedly caused by a gas leak," the lady was saying. "A block of dorms near Bart's morgue..."

John leapt up. "Simon!" he called quickly, the picture of the flats burning still in his mind. They'd been right across from his own building, if Sherlock had been home... "Simon! I'm going out, I've got to go, sorry!" he shouted, and didn't wait for an answer before running out the door.

* * *

John caught a taxi. There were times to care about his bank account, but they did not include when his flatmate might be dead. So he took a cab.

When he got out there was a crowd of people surrounding his block, and he had to shove his way through, saying 'excuse me' the whole way and elbowing a few people in the ribs before nearly getting stopped by an officer. Luckily he was let through after insisting that he _lived_ there, and he darted upstairs without a second thought. "Sherlock? Sherlock are you all right?" He grabbed the doorframe and surveyed the wreckage.

The skylights were blown through, and Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, plucking at her cello and just generally looking stroppy, while Mycroft sat across from her genially in John's chair, hands folded on his umbrella. Both were ignoring the glass around them, though they were both (luckily, as Sherlock often didn't bother) wearing shoes.

"Hm?" Sherlock said, shaking herself out of whatever thought process she'd been in the middle of. "I'm fine. Gas leak, apparently."

"Hello, then. Ah, hello, Mycroft, um. Tea?" John offered, heading for the kitchen.

"Ah, no thank you, John, it seems I'll be leaving. Maybe you'll have better luck than I'm having. I'm afraid my sister can be very intransigent," Mycroft replied, getting up with a diplomatic sigh.

"Right. What's going on?" John asked, looking from one of them to the other.

"Go away, Mycroft," Sherlock said quickly, but Mycroft turned to John.

"I'm trying to get her to take on a small case."

John raised an eyebrow. "Don't you have your own people for that?"

Mycroft shook his head. "I'm afraid this is of utmost importance."

"Do it yourself," Sherlock suggested, and Mycroft glared at her.

"It's perfectly suitable for you. I can't get away from the office, with the Korean elections so... anyway, a case like this, it requires..." he shifted his feet, "legwork." He made a grimace.

"How was the Li-Lo, John?" Sherlock asked him in a transparent attempt to change the subject.

"Sofa, Sherlock, it was the sofa," Mycroft murmured, and Sherlock looked up quickly, taking in John with a sweep of her eyes.

"Oh, yes. Of course," she agreed.

"How...?" John shook his head. "I probably don't want to know."

"It's nothing like that, John," Mycroft assured him. "Sherlock's business seems to be doing well, especially since you and she became... friends. What's she like to live with? Horrid, I'd imagine."

John shrugged. "I'm never bored," he said, realizing that he didn't much like Mycroft when he was around his sister. It seemed they brought out the worst in each other.

"Good! That's... good, isn't it?" And his smile grew more condescending, but also just a bit unsure, and John nodded firmly as Sherlock gave him a glare.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said finally, stepping forward and holding out a file. Sherlock blocked it with her cello bow, and Mycroft sighed, turning to hand the folder to John, who took it, a bit surprised.

"Andrew West, a civil servant. He was known as Westie to his friends. He was found dead on the tracks at Battersea Station with his head smashed in, this morning," Mycroft expounded. John just listened, trying to figure out why Mycroft was telling this to him instead of Sherlock.

"He jumped in front of a train?" he asked, and Mycroft smiled.

"It does seem the logical assumption," he said, and John raised his eyebrows.

"But?" he asked, and saw Sherlock smile out of the corner of his eye.

"But?" Mycroft repeated, and he shrugged.

"You wouldn't come if it were just an accident," he explained, and yes, Sherlock was definitely smirking now.

Mycroft sighed, shifting so he could lean slightly on his umbrella. "The M.O.D. is currently working on a new missile defence system - the Bruce Partington Programme, as it's called. The plans for it were on a memory stick."

John looked up from the folder, which he had started to sift through. "That wasn't very clever."

Sherlock choked and Mycroft gave her a swift glare, then turned back to John. "It wasn't the only copy," he informed John, who nodded seriously. "But it _is_ secret. And missing."

"_Top_ Secret?" John asked, starting to wonder if Mycroft took drama classes while in school.

"Very," Mycroft agreed, in utter seriousness. "We thing West might have taken it. We can't possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands." He turned back to Sherlock. "I need you to find those plans, Sherlock."

"Busy," she said quickly. "Got far too much on, now, can't possibly fit it in."

"Make time," Mycroft said, but she didn't blink an eye.

"Impossible, not happening."

"Don't make me order you," Mycroft said, turning to lean over her in frustration, but she just blinked up innocently at him.

"I'd like to see you try," she said firmly, and Mycroft straightened.

"Think it over," he said, before turning to the door. "Have a good day, John."

"Ah, you too, I think," John replied awkwardly.

"See you _very_ soon," Mycroft replied cryptically, and John shifted, suddenly nervous, but Sherlock decided at that moment to spur her brother on by playing the most off-tune, horrible sequence of notes one could possibly play on a cello, until her brother closed the door behind him. Even as her bow left the strings her feet bounced against the floor, her temper obviously riled. John waited until he figured Mycroft was a fair distance away before he spoke up.

"You lied. Why?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, and he tossed the file on the coffee table.

"You've got nothing on. Not a _single_ case. That's why my wall has holes in it. Why did you tell your brother you were busy?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Why shouldn't I?"

"Oh!" John blinked at her. "I see. Sibling rivalry, now we're getting somewhere."

Sherlock opened her mouth, presumably to tell him he was being an idiot, but her phone started to buzz. She tossed her bow on the coffee table on top of the file, still annoyed, and pulled out her phone. "Sherlock Holmes." Her eyes brightened.

"Of course. How could I refuse?" she said quickly, then bounced out of the chair, and John noticed that she'd bothered to change into a nice blouse and trousers in the time he was gone. "Lestrade. I've been summoned. You coming?"

John let his shoulders drop. "If you want me to," he said, remembering their fight from the night before.

"Of course," Sherlock said, pulling on her coat. "I'd be lost without my blogger."

His mood rising, John followed her out the door.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock paid for the taxi again. John was beginning to come to an inner compromise in which she was allowed to pay for the transportation she insisted on taking. It was already working out in his favour.

When they got to NSY Sherlock quickly made her way upstairs to a place that must be Lestrade's office, though John hadn't been before so he didn't really know. She broke stride only once to glare at Sergeant Donovan, who glared back with equal fervour. John wasn't certain he wanted to know what had happened there, besides Anderson's misplaced infatuation.

Lestrade was waiting in his office, and looked up quickly as Sherlock burst through the door. "Ah, you're here," he said, and sat back. "You like the interesting ones, yeah? The weird cases."

"Obviously," Sherlock replied, and Lestrade grinned.

"You'll love this one. That explosion."

"Gas leak?" John asked, and the DI shook his head.

"Made to look like one."

"What?" John asked, worry creasing his face, and Greg nodded.

"There was hardly anything left of the place, except for a strong box - a very strong box - and inside it was that." He pointed with his pencil at a small envelope that was resting on his desk, and the package grabbed Sherlock's attention immediately. Which made sense, as it had her name on it.

John didn't like this at _all_.

"You haven't opened it?" Sherlock asked, almost sounding surprised. John supposed she wouldn't have stopped herself if it had been her, with John's name on the package.

"Well, it's got your name on it, doesn't it?" Lestrade replied. "We've x-rayed it, it's not booby-trapped."

"How reassuring," Sherlock said sarcastically as she picked up the envelope carefully. She held it up to the desk lamp, examining it minutely. John let himself slip into parade rest, his discomfort showing up as a twinge in his leg.

"It's heavy paper, nice stationary." She opened the envelope carefully, not along the crease like most would but by sliding her nail along the adhesive until it popped open, just as it would have been for the sealer. She held the flap up to the light and let out a breath. "Ah, Bohemian."

"What?" Greg asked, sounding confused but watching intently. Learning, John realized.

"From the Czech Republic," Sherlock explained, and when she held up the envelope again John could just glimpse the watermark that shone through in the light, a symbol that meant little to him but apparently marked the paper as coming from Bohemia.

"No fingerprints?" Sherlock asked Lestrade, and he shook his head. She turned the envelope back over, examining her name, written in cursive neatly. "She used a fountain pen. Fancy one, I'd say good quality, probably a Parker Duofold. Iridium nib from the writing style and pressure."

John almost whistled through his teeth. The things Sherlock could tell from a written name! He wouldn't have gotten any of that from the envelope, even if he was looking. Except -

"She?" he asked, and Sherlock nodded.

"Obviously."

"Obviously," John repeated after her, but she gave no explanation. He frowned.

Sherlock finally turned the envelope over again and slipped its contents into her gloved palm. She frowned down at the object in her hand, turning it over.

"But - but that's got his logo - the logo on it," John stated in confusion, staring at the small tablet computer Sherlock now held in her hand.

"The one from _A Case Study_?" Lestrade asked in disbelief. "That's in evidence."

"Well, obviously not the same one," Sherlock said quickly, "But it's been made to look like it, down to the details - hold on a moment." She turned on Lestrade quickly. "You read his blog?"

"Of course," Greg grinned. "We all do. Do you really not know that the earth goes round the sun?"

John heard Sally snigger from outside the office, and frowned, shaking his head slightly. Alright, point taken, he'd never put something on his blog that the Met could use as fodder to torment Sherlock again.

"It isn't the same tablet," Sherlock said, ignoring Lestrade's question. "It's brand new. Someone took effort to make it look like this. Which means your _blog_ has a far wider readership than you suspected, John."

John looked away, face turning red as she frowned at him. She hit the power-up button, and the machine turned on, lighting up and blinking for a moment before a small alert signal beeped at them.

"I've got an email," Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow. A couple flicks of her fingers later, she was frowning. "An mp3?" she asked the room, then hit a button with a tap of her finger.

_Blip. Blip. Blip. Blip. BLEEEP._

The recording stopped, and Sherlock frowned. "There's something else, another email." She flicked a finger, and turned the tablet slightly so John could see it when he walked over.

"It's a room," he said in confusion, and Lestrade ducked his head in from Sherlock's other side.

"Well, what are we supposed to make of that?" he asked, sounding exasperated as he scratched his head. "An estate agent's photo and the Greenwich pips!"

Sherlock was staring over the tablet into nothing, and blinked herself back at Greg's question. "It's a warning," she said.

"A warning?" John was not following this, and it was not helping him feel better about the situation.

"Secret societies used to use seeds as warning symbols; orange pips, dried melon seeds... five pips. They're warning us it's going to happen again. I know this place."

"What's going to happen again?" Lestrade said as Sherlock walked out of the room.

"BOOM!" she said, turning and letting her hands mime fireworks. John gulped, gave Lestrade a nod, and they both trotted behind.

* * *

**Right, so this story is kicking my butt. There is ****_so much_**** information and buildup for Moriarty's character in TGG, you guys, and I don't want to do it an injustice. I'm currently a couple of chapters ahead but if there are some breaks in the post schedule of this story I'm truly sorry. I'll try to let you all know beforehand if it does happen. **

**In the meantime, every review gives me more motivation to continue!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Super long chapter for you this week! Enjoy.**

* * *

Some days, John decides in the taxi, go by very quickly, like water sinking into sand. For example, yesterday. Yesterday was a fast day. Go to work, come home, argue with Sherlock, leave, go to sleep.

Other days were much longer, such as look at a flat, get dragged to a crime scene, find way home from crime scene, get kidnapped, come home, get dragged to a restaurant, eat, chase a cab, come home, find a drugs bust, have flatmate disappear, chase her down, shoot water cabbie, face down British Government, go to a late night dinner.

But those were the days that made him feel alive, and he enjoyed them.

This, however, was a different sort altogether. This was a long day, but he didn't like the thrum that pulsed through his veins. Sherlock might just be glad she had a case, but John didn't like it, didn't like the writing that had stood out, stark against the cream of the envelope.

Other cases had revolved around others; this one revolved around _her_, and John was decidedly uncomfortable with that fact.

All the same, it wasn't a reason for Sherlock to stop; if anything, it was a stronger reason for her to _carry on_, seeing as her life might be in the balance, and so he stayed quiet in the cab, hands folded in his lap as he looked out the window for snipers. 

* * *

John had missed Sherlock giving the cabbie the address, so he was bit surprised when the car pulled up in front of their own building. "Sherlock?" he questioned as he got out of the car, but she didn't so much as look at him, instead paying the cabbie quickly with a swipe of her card and heading inside. John saw Lestrade getting out of the police car behind them, and nodded his head at Sherlock with his brows raised.

Greg shrugged in response, and they both followed Sherlock in, as she stopped in front of Mrs. Hudson's door and rapped, not waiting for a response before bellowing, "Mrs. Hudson!"

The door flew open. "Sherlock, dear, what's going o- hello Inspector, is there something wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, Mrs. Hudson, I was just hoping you could unlock that basement flat for me," Sherlock said quickly. Lestrade, who had been about to reply to Mrs. Hudson's kind inquiry, snapped his mouth shut in annoyance and shoved his hands in his pockets.

Mrs. Hudson took one look at the three of them and nodded, grabbing a bunch of keys off of a hook near the door and stepping out, leading the way through the hall and down some stairs.

"I showed you the place, didn't I, Sherlock, when you first came looking for a flat," she said as she stopped in front of a door. Sherlock stopped her from putting her key in the lock, examining the mechanism intently.

"This door's been opened recently," she said, and Mrs. Hudson shook her head.

"No, can't have been, I've got the only key. Here you are, dear," she said, and shoved the key in the lock. Sherlock decided she was taking too long finding the key for the second mechanism and took the keyring from her, flipping through them dexterously.

"I can't find anyone interested in this flat," Mrs. Hudson sighed. "I expect it's the damp, that's the curse of basements."

Sherlock opened the door with a click and entered, John and Greg following her, and John could hear Mrs. Hudson's exclamation of _Oh, men!_ when Greg shut the door on her.

"Didn't want her coming if it's dangerous," he murmured to John, who nodded as all three of them turned their attention to the objects on the floor.

Shoes. Two of them; a pair, sitting in the centre of the floor, placed there by someone, obviously. Sherlock began to walk toward them, and John muttered, "He's a bomber, remember."

She walked lightly, then, tiptoeing carefully and then dropping onto her hands and knees to shuffle forward so she was nearly doing a press-up on top of the shoes, examining them curiously.

An alert went off, and all three of them jumped, then Sherlock got up to roll her eyes at John as she pulled the small tablet out of her pocket. "It's got a phone app," she said curiously as she tapped it, holding the tablet near her face to talk into the microphone.

"H-hello, sexy," a trembling voice said through the speaker, and John's fists clenched as the person on the other side began to sob.

"Who is this?" Sherlock demanded, and the voice on the other side pulled in some unsteady breaths before replying.

"I've sent... you a little... puzzle... just to say... hi," she said. John had realized it was a woman, and his fists clenched just a bit more, his nails biting his skin from the pressure.

Sherlock frowned at the tablet, as if she could push a button and make it give her answers. "Who's talking? Why are you crying?"

"I'm not... talking," the woman said, voice breaking. "I'm... typing. And this... stupid bitch... is reading it out!" Her voice turned into a wail.

Staring at the wall, Sherlock took a deep breath. "So the curtain rises," she whispered, almost to herself.

"What?" John asked, making his hands let go, but feeling his shoulders tighten at the effort.

"Nothing," Sherlock said too quickly, which meant she was hiding something. For whatever reason, John didn't really want her hiding anything from him on this one.

"No, what did you mean?" he demanded, and Sherlock looked at him.

"It's just that I've been expecting this for quite some time," she said simply, and John would have asked more, but the woman was talking again.

"Twelve hours... to solve... my puzzle, Sherlock..." the woman choked out, "or... I'm going... to be so... naughty!"

Her voice broke again on the last word, and the line went dead, with Sherlock staring at the tablet. "Blocked number," she said shortly, and frowned, pocketing it.

* * *

Once they were declared safe to move and unlikely to contain explosives, Sherlock wasted no time in taking the trainers to the labs at Barts, pushing her way in with such authority that no one really questioned her. John fetched her coffees and teas as he watched her slowly dissect the shoes, pulling dirt out of the soles, scraping the insides onto petri dishes, examining every part of the interior and exterior without actually pulling the shoes to pieces.

"So," he finally said as Sherlock stared through a microscope, the machine next to her analyzing the akaline content of the soil from the sole treads, "who do you s'pose it was?"

Sherlock's phone gave a loud humming noise, and she ignored it, turning the knobs on the microscope.

"Hm?" Sherlock said absently after another moment, and he frowned from his seat on a stool.

"The woman, the... crying woman." He hadn't been able to get her voice out of his head all day.

"Oh, she's just a hostage, no lead there," Sherlock said quickly, switching out one slide for another.

John wanted to whack her with a newspaper, like one did to unruly pets. "For god's sake, I wasn't thinking about leads!"

"Well then you won't be much use to her," Sherlock quipped back, and John rolled his eyes.

The phone hummed again, and John remembered.

"Are they trying to trace it? Trace the call?" he asked, wondering if the police could find the woman through GPS or something.

Sherlock frowned into her microscope. "The bomber's too smart for that," she replied, and John folded his arms, his distaste for this case rising by the second as the phone hummed yet again.

"Pass me my phone," Sherlock said absently.

"Where is it?"

"Jacket," Sherlock said, and John set his arms carefully by his sides, squared his jaw, clenched his hands, and walked the three steps over to Sherlock in measured pace, pulling the phone out of the jacket she was wearing and slamming it onto the counter a bit more aggressively than he should have.

"Careful!" Sherlock protested without looking up, but John didn't much care. He looked down at the phone, which was blinking a message at him.

"Text from your brother," he said, interest piqued.

"Delete it," Sherlock said, and John turned to her in disbelief as she changed out another slide. "The plans are out of the country by now, there's nothing we can do about it."

John looked at the text.

**Re: Bruce Partington Plans**  
**Any progress on Andrew West's death? Mycroft Holmes**

He raised his eyebrows; did all Holmes' sign their text messages? And this one had a fucking 'regarding' subject line. He sighed and rubbed his forehead irritably.

"Mycroft thinks there's something you can do; he's texted you eight times," he told her, flicking through the received messages.

Sherlock raised her head, shaking curls out of her face as she glared at the phone. "Then why didn't he cancel his dentist appointment?" she demanded, and John tilted his head at her, waiting for an explanation. "Mycroft never texts when he can talk. Andrew West stole the plans, tried to sell them, got his head smashed in for the trouble. End of story. Problem is, why does my brother think I'll be interested in letting him bore me when someone else is being so brilliantly engaging?"

Pressing the off switch on the phone with more force than necessary, John growled at her, "Try to remember there's a woman here who _might die_."

"Why?" she asked, and his eyes narrowed, about to give her a lecture, but she continued. "This hospital is_ full_ of people _dying_, doctor. Why don't you go cry at their bedsides? See what good it does them."

John snapped his mouth shut and looked away, not liking the feeling that welled in his chest, reminding him too much of trying to save people he knew he couldn't. He was still trying to get his riotous emotions in check when a machine started to beep.

"Any luck?" Molly asked, coming through the door with a smile. John was pretty certain Molly was one of the reasons Sherlock hadn't just gotten kicked out of the place already.

"Oh, yes!" Sherlock said happily, getting up and clasping her hands before whirling to look at the paper a machine was printing out.

Molly smiled at her curly head, then turned to look back at the door. John followed her gaze to see a pale man hovering in the doorway.

"Oh," he said, looking at the three of them. "Sorry."

"No, Jim, no, come in, come in!" Molly gestured enthusiastically, and the man entered hesitantly. John took him in quickly, noting the way Molly smiled at him, and the way his cheekbones stood out in his pale face and his raven hair. _The other side of Sherlock's coin, he thought, and Molly's found him._

Sherlock looked him over as well, but didn't seem impressed, turning back to her microscope without any sort of greeting.

"Ah, Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes," Molly said in her quick nervous way, and Jim grinned widely.

"Ah!" he said, obviously having heard stories, and John turned toward him. Molly looked up from gazing at Sherlock to introduce them as well, but her eyes went blank and John knew she couldn't remember his name.

"John Watson," he said, extending a hand.

"Ah, sorry," Molly muttered, and he shrugged.

"It's no problem." Sherlock was obviously the star of this little moment, anyway. John had a feeling this was going to become a regular occurrence.

"So you're Sherlock Holmes," Jim said, wringing his hands and looking at Sherlock. "Molly's told me all about you. You on one of your cases?" He walked closer to Sherlock, and John had to step out of the way, which miffed him a bit.

"Jim works in I.T. upstairs," Molly confided. "That's how we met." She gave a nervous bounce on her toes. "Office romance." She giggled.

Sherlock finally looked at Jim again, but it was the quick up-and-down John had gotten at their first meeting, when she'd barely peeked out the door to see if he would be a decent neighbour. "Gay," she said flatly, and went back to her microscope.

"Wait, what?" Molly asked quickly, and Sherlock froze in front of the microscope, then turned around quickly to put on a false smile.

"Nothing," she lied quickly. "Ah, hey."

"Hey," Jim said, smiling at her, then stepping back and bumping into John, who caught him awkwardly, pushing him back onto his feet.

"Sorry, sorry," he apologized, and looked at Molly. "Well, I'd best be off. See you at around 6ish?"

"Yeah!" Molly agreed, and Jim gave her a quick squeeze.

"Ah, bye," he said, nodding to Sherlock and John.

"Bye," Sherlock said, waving from her microscope. John just gave the man a curt nod. He walked to the door and turned.

"It was nice to meet you," he offered from the doorway, but Sherlock ignored him.

"Ah," John said awkwardly, "You too."

Jim winked at him - no, that was a blink, John told himself, the man was with Molly - and closed the door.

The moment the door was closed Molly turned on Sherlock.

"What do you mean, gay? We're together."

Sherlock looked her over. "And domestic bliss suits you. You've put on three pounds since I last saw you."

Molly glared at her. "Two and a half."

"No, three," Sherlock said and John interrupted.

"Sherlock," he said warningly, as Molly began to stutter angrily.

"He's not _gay_," she insisted. "He's - why do you have to _spoil_ everything? He's - he's not."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "With that level of personal grooming?"

John gave her a glare to match Molly's. "Oy, I fancy blokes and I _don't_ put product in my hair," he countered, but Sherlock just gave him a look.

"No, no. The tinted eyebrows? The tired clubber's eyes? The hints of taurine round the eyes? And then there's his underwear."

"What about his underwear?" Molly choked out, and Sherlock waved a hand lightly as she continued.

"Visible, very visible, very particular brand." She reached over and plucked a piece of paper out of John's pocket, making him jump, and turned back to Molly. "Plus the extremely suggestive fact that he's left his number in John's pocket here..." she flourished the card that John hadn't noticed slipping into his pocket when Jim brushed against him, "... and I say you should break it off yourself and save yourself the pain."

Molly blinked rapidly at him for a moment, then turned and whirled out of the room. Sherlock looked surprised at her reaction, eyebrows drawing together as if it were an unexpected result to an experiment.

"Charming," John sighed. "Well done."

"It's just saving her time," Sherlock said, sounding a bit bewildered. "Isn't that kinder?"

"Kind?" John said in surprise, then blinked as he realized Sherlock was serious, and answering in the same way. "No, Sherlock," he explained, "that," he pointed at the door where Molly had just left, "was not kind."

Sherlock frowned, then swivelled on her stool to hold out Jim's card. "Do you want to keep it?" she asked, and when John shook his head she tossed it in a bin next to her, then swivelled back round to pick up one of the shoes, handing it to John.

"Go on, then," she nodded at the trainer, and John looked at her in disbelief.

"What?" John asked, and she nodded toward the shoe again.

"You know what I do," she said haughtily. "Off you go, then." She sat back, folding her arms as if preparing for a show. John shook his head and looked at his watch, mentally calculating the minutes until that poor woman died.

"No," he said, and Sherlock raised her eyebrows.

"Go on," Sherlock prodded, and he shook his head again.

"Sherlock, I'm not going to sit here and have you poke fun at me while I try to figure out -" he protested, but she interrupted.

"An outside eye? A second opinion? It's very useful to me."

"Yeah, right," John rolled his eyes, but Sherlock was insistent.

"_Really_," she said, and John reluctantly turned to the trainers.

"Fine." He looked them over and shrugged. "I dunno. They're just a pair of shoes. Trainers."

Sherlock raised her eyebrows in the same way she had on their first case - _Excellent deduction, but I'd hoped you'd go deeper._ "Good."

"Um," John said, continuing to look over the shoe in his hand as Sherlock checked her phone. "They're in good nick; I'd say they were new except... the sole's worn thin, so the owner must have had them for a while."

Sherlock had begun to look disappointed when John had mentioned the trainers being new, but nodded as he continued.

"They're very eighties," John said, remembering his own trainers from his childhood, "probably one of those retro designs."

"You're on sparkling form," Sherlock told him. "What else?"

"They're large, so... a man's?" John guessed. Sherlock looked at him.

"But?" she prodded, and John looked at the shoes again.

"But... there's a name in them in felt tip. And adults don't write their names in their shoes, so these must have belonged to a kid."

"Excellent," Sherlock grinned at him. "What else?

John looked at the shoe in his hand, willing the previous owner to reveal himself further, but got nothing. He shrugged. "That's it."

"That's it?" Sherlock asked, and John nodded, setting down the shoe and putting his hands behind his back.

"How did I do?" he asked hesitantly.

"Oh, very good, John. _Really_ well." To John's surprise, she actually seemed to mean it. And then she followed up with, "Of course, you missed almost everything of importance."

John gave an inward sigh.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock held out her hand for the trainer, and John sighed aloud now, picking up the shoe and setting it in her palm. She rotated the shoe in front of her, eyes flickering over it.

"The owner loved these," she told him. "He changed the laces three - no, four - times, whitened them when they got discoloured, scrubbed them clean." John groaned and leaned back against the desk behind him, realizing how much he had missed. "Even so," Sherlock continued, 'there are traces of flaky skin where his fingers came into contact with them, so he had eczema. Shoes are well-worn, more so on the inside, so the wearer had weak arches. British make, twenty years old."

"Hold on," John interrupted. "Twenty years?"

"They're not retro, they're original," Sherlock said, holding up her phone, showing him a picture of the same type of trainer. "Limited edition, two blue stripes, 1989."

"But there's still mud on them," John said disbelievingly, gesturing to the sole. "They look _new_!"

Sherlock looked the shoe over again thoughtfully. "Someone's taken a great deal of care to keep them that way. There's quite a bit of mud caked into the sole; analysis shows it's Sussex mud with London overlaying it."

"How do you know?" John asked, and Sherlock nodded at her microscope.

"Pollen. Clear as a map reference to me. South of the river, too. So whoever owned these shoes came to London from Sussex for something and left them behind."

"So what happened to them?" John asked, and Sherlock stared over the shoes into space.

"Something bad," she murmured. "He loved these shoes, remember? He'd never leave without them, wouldn't let them go unless he had to. So, a child with big feet gets... oh."

Her eyes got distant and far away as she stopped speaking, and John looked at her expectantly.

"What?" he prompted.

"Carl Powers," Sherlock murmured.

"Who?"

"Carl Powers, John," She said, looking up at him finally.

"What is that?" he asked, feeling a step behind again.

"He's where I began," she replied.

* * *

Sherlock hustled them back into a cab without answering any of John's questions, which was annoying, but John was willing to wait. So when she started to talk in the car, he was a bit surprised, but listened.

"Nineteen-eighty-nine, a kid - champion swimmer - came up from Brighton to London for a school sports tournament, drowned in the pool. Tragic accident." She turned to him with a newspaper clipping on her phone, John took it and looked it over. "You wouldn't remember it," she assured him. "Why would you?"

"But you do," John said, and Sherlock nodded. "Something strange about it?" he asked, and she shrugged.

"Nobody thought so. I was only a kid then, I read about it in the papers. I was the only one who thought it was odd."

"Started young, then," John said, imagining little Sherlock going off about murder, and wondering what _Mummy_ was like.

"The boy, Carl Powers, he had some sort of... fit, in the water," Sherlock told him. "By the time they got him out it was too late. That all made sense, but there was something I couldn't get out of my head."

"What?"

"His shoes," Sherlock said.

"What about them?"

"They weren't there," she said, frustrated. "I made a fuss, I tried to get the police interested, but no one would listen to me. They didn't think it was important. All of his clothes were left in the locker, except for his shoes. There was no sign of them."

Sherlock looked down at the shoes. "Until now, of course."

* * *

John could feel it, like a clock on top of his head, counting down. _Tick, tick, tick._

He didn't like it.

Sherlock had gone to the library, pulling every newspaper from the archives that she could, every bit of literature on Carl Powers. She'd spread them out all over her lab table, moving her equipment to get more room. John paced in the sitting room, anxious, feeling the glass from the skylights crunch under his shoes.

"Can I help?" he finally asked. "I want to help, there's only five hours left."

As if on cue, his phone buzzed, and he flicked away the lock screen to see a text from Mycroft.

**RE: Andrew West**  
**ANY DEVELOPMENTS? MYCROFT HOLMES**

"It's your brother," he told Sherlock. "He's texting _me_ now."

Sherlock looked up from her papers and hummed thoughtfully. "Root canal," she finally said, turning back to her research.

John came into the lab, frowning as he tried to figure out Sherlock's system to organizing the clippings. "He did say national importance."

Sherlock snorted. "How quaint."

"What is?" John asked, looking at the paper she was reading, but instead she gestured up at him.

"You are. Queen and Country."

John gave her a stern frown. "You can't just ignore it, Sherlock."

"I'm not," she said defensively. "I'm putting my best man onto it, right now."

"Oh, good," John smiled, then thought about it and frowned. "Who's that?"

"You," Sherlock said with a smirk.

* * *

John spent most of the cab ride to Mycroft's torn between feeling frustrated at being used by Sherlock, and flattered because he had made it to 'best man' status.

Which said something about his social life, he thought.

He had bothered to get into a jacket and tie this time, knowing that he was probably going to end up at Mycroft's ridiculously posh office. He didn't want to come in feeling under-dressed again. After going to the address Sherlock had specified, he was shown into that exact office, and sat.

And sat, and sat. He was starting to get a little worried - that invisible clock was still ticking above his head - when Mycroft came in with a diplomatic smile.

"Ah, John," he said, looking up from a paper he was reading. "I wondered when you'd come."

John stood up, but Mycroft didn't shake his hand, instead coming round to the other side of the desk and setting the report down. "How can I help you?" he asked John, and John gave him a look. Wasn't the whole point of this that _Mycroft_ had asked a favour? Trust a politician to try and turn the tables, he thought.

"Thanks," he said awkwardly, feeling slightly put off. "Ah, Sherlock sent me to get more information about the missile plans, the Andrew West case."

Mycroft gave him a secret smile. "Did she?"

John frowned and fidgeted. "Yes. She's, ah, investigating now." _She is_, he said to himself, _just not on your case_. "Investigating away."

Mycroft covered his smile with a hand, and John cleared his throat.

"Anyway, I was just wondering what you could tell me about the dead man."

Frowning at him as if he'd done something somewhat unexpected, Mycroft sat back. "Ah, twenty-seven," he said, not looking at any papers. "A clerk at Vauxhall Cross - ah - MI6. Involved in the Bruce Partington Programme in a minor capacity. Security checks clear, no known terrorist affiliation or sympathies. Last seen by his fiancee at ten-thirty yesterday evening."

"Right," John said, annoyed that Mycroft could keep all that information in his head, while John had to take shorthand notes and hope he could get everything down. "Found at Battersea, right? So he took a train - "

"No," Mycroft said, and John frowned.

"No?"

Mycroft shook his head, grimaced, and put his hand to his jaw, and John realized with a spot of satisfaction that Sherlock had been right about the dentist. "He had an Oyster Card," Mycroft said, "but it hadn't been used."

"So he got a ticket?" John asked, and Mycroft shook his head, not as strongly this time, as if to avoid jostling his jaw.

"There was no ticket on the body."

"Well, then..." John let his voice trail off as he thought, tapping his pencil on the paper.

"Then how did he end up on the tracks at Battersea with his head bashed in? I was hoping Sherlock could answer that question - how is she getting on, by the way?" Mycroft asked.

"Great! She's, ah, doing great, completely focused," John smiled at Mycroft widely; a fake grin, but one he knew the politician would mirror, and felt another spike of satisfaction when the smile turned into a grimace.


	7. Chapter 7

**Right, so this was a quick type-up after work because the original was written - actually, like paper and pencil written - and I am exhausted. If you see any spelling errors or stupid typos please message me? I'm too tired to see them and need to go to bed. **

* * *

John heard a slam of hands on wood and a garbled shout of exclamation as he climbed the stairs, but couldn't make out the words, so Sherlock's expectant look as he came through the door was rather wasted.

"Sorry," he sighed, taking off his jacket, "I didn't catch that."

"I've been explaining the whole time!" Sherlock protested.

"Yes, well, I wasn't here. Try again," John offered, rolling his eyes. Sherlock glared at him and got up from her spot at her microscope.

"Clostridium Botulinum - one of the most powerful poisons on the planet," she explained excitedly, typing something quickly and hitting a button with a flourish.

"So... he was murdered," John said slowly. "Wouldn't they have seen that?"

Sherlock shook her head, her curls bouncing back and forth. "It's virtually undetectable. No-one would have been looking for it. It would have been the easiest thing to introduce it into his eczema medication. Couple of hours later, he comes to the swim meet in London, his muscles paralyse in the water, and he drowns."

"How do we tell the bomber?" John asked, mind racing back to the frightened woman.

"Already did that," Sherlock nodded at her computer. "There were still traces of the poison in the shoes from where he put the medication on his feet, John. That's why they had to go."

"But he kept them all this time, when he should have disposed of the evidence," John reasoned aloud, eyes widening in dawning horror. His left hand clenched in his pocket. "He's our bomber."

Sherlock nodded again, face set, betraying nothing, and then the tablet rang. Sherlock grabbed it quickly.

"Well done, you," the woman said, voice choking. John clenched his hands again, as she continued, "Come and get me."

"Where are you?" Sherlock demanded calmly, every bit of her posh accent showing as she enunciated extra clearly. "Tell me where you are."

A minute later John was on the phone, relaying an address to Lestrade as Sherlock continued to talk calmly to the woman on the phone, assuring her that despite the police force's regular incompetence, she would be fine. John would have scolded her, but the hostage choked out a suprised laugh, so he let it be in favour of bringing Lestrade up-to-date on what they'd found.

Sherlock passed the tablet to John after Lestrade rung off, and he introduced himself even as he apologised, chatting aimlessly to try to keep her calm until the bomb team got there, using every bedside manner he'd ever learned at the side of wounded soldiers.

It was a half-hour later before he hit the "end call" button with his thumb, emotionally tired but a smile on his face - the bomb squad had arrived. Sherlock had spent the time packing up the trainers into evidence bags, along with her slides. John caught her eye and tossed her the tablet. "I am having a cuppa, bomber or no," he announced, "and then I am changing out of this bloody suit."

"No milk, two sugars," was all Sherlock said in reply, sitting on the sofa and pulling her cello close.

* * *

John was woken early by a consulting detective. "Called Simon for you," she said, practically bouncing in place with manic energy. "He knows not to expect you to come in 'till the pips are done."

"Did you get another one, then?" John groaned, pushing his torso up on his elbows and blinking at her muzzily.

"No, but Scotland Yard ought to be able to brief us by now; come _on_." She tugged at his blankets and stalked out of the room. "Five minutes, John!"

John took a bit more than five minutes- he desperately needed a shower. Sherlock was scowling heavily by the time he emerged from his room, face ruddy from the hot water, dressed and clean.

"I texted Lestrade," she said grudgingly in the cab, as though she'd done some great favour. John realized she probably never texted ahead, then looked over at her, amused, as she grumbled, "Now we're late."

"I'll tell Lestrade it was my fault," he assured her, fighting a smile as she sniffed and leaned back on the seat.

Sherlock headed up to Lestrade's office quickly, John a step behind as usual. "I'm gonna grab a coffee," he said, gesturing to the canteen, and Sherlock huffed and gave a quick wave of her hand that said, "if you must," as John peeled off to the coffee machine.

He smiled as he entered the room; Sherlock was headed to an empty office to wait. Lestrade was standing next to the coffee machine, tapping his foot impatiently as it brewed. He looked up and gave John a cheeky grin, then rubbed his forehead.

"Hell of a day yesterday," he greeted John. "You up for another one?"

John grinned back, grateful for the easy camaraderie after the tension of the day before. "Not really," he confessed, "but I reckon I'd be crazy if I was. Sherlock's up in your office, you know."

Lestrade's smile only grew. "I know - she _texted ahead_. Did you ask her to do that?"

John shook his head. "No, but she sent me to deal with her brother yesterday - I'm wondering if this is some strange way of... behaving? Making it up?" He shook his head at himself. "I don't know. It's Sherlock."

Lestrade nodded his understanding and took the now-full coffee-pot in hand, pouring two cups and handing one to John, who added his milk without comment.

"No further messages so far, then?" Lestrade asked as they took the lift up to his office.

"Not as far as I know," John shrugged. "I don't like this one, mate," he admitted after a moment. "It's gotten... personal. In a creepy way."

Lestrade grimaced. "Not just me who thinks it's all a bit off, then?"

John shook his head, and Greg sighed. "We'll do what we can, but you've seen her when she's on a case - and she's not about to let go of this one."

"I know," John said, and then they stepped out of the lift and Sherlock was glaring at them both.

"You're late," she accused Lestrade. "And I_ texted ahead_, so you have no excuse."

"Yes, yes," Lestrade sighed, entering his office and setting his coffee down as Sherlock paced restlessly to the window, bringing her hands up to press in front of her face.

"She lives in Cornwall," Lestrade said, pulling some papers out of a stack. "Two men broke in wearing masks, forced her to drive to a car park -"

"Is that where she was? A car park?" John interrupted, and Lestrade nodded, while Sherlock's fingers tapped, _one, two, three_, in front of her face.

"Right in the centre. Who knows how many people walked past her. They had her decked out in enough explosives to take down a house. Told her to phone you," he nodded toward Sherlock, "and had her read out from this pager." He pulled a basic pager in an evidence bag out of a drawer and set it in front of John, who picked it up and turned it over, imagining how it must have felt to sit there, alone, reading threats.

"And if she deviated by one word, a sniper would set her off," Sherlock murmured. Lestrade sighed and sat down heavily.

"You've already read the file, then. Why am I even talking?"

"Someone's got to fill John in," Sherlock said airily. "This is elegant."

John clenched his fist around the pager and repeated, "Elegant?"

"But what was the point? Why would anyone do this?" Lestrade asked, and Sherlock hummed. _Hummed_. John's pulse went just a bit faster.

"Oh," she said, as casually as if she were talking about the weather, "I can't be the only one who gets bored."


	8. Chapter 8

**Right. So I got ill last week and didn't post. I know it's been traditional for me to double-post if I miss one, but frankly... I had no chance to write when I was ill and I don't ****_have_**** that second chapter to give you guys. I'm really sorry, as previously stated this story is kicking my butt. **

**In the meantime I beg your forgiveness and give you this chapter in penance. **

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* * *

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John and Lestrade were both processing that rather terrifying statement when the tablet made its distinctive sound from Sherlock's pocket. She turned to face them as she pulled it out, hitting the button and letting the email play.

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beeeeep._

"Four," John breathed, and Sherlock nodded at him with something like appreciation.

"One down," she confirmed. "Here's our second test." She pressed another button and flipped the screen to show John and Lestrade the photo on it.

It was a car, door open, plates obvious.

"Abandoned. I can run the plates," Lestrade offered, and Sherlock nodded as he pulled up his chair to the computer.

"Freak," came a voice from the door. John automatically clenched his fists and, upon realizing it, stuffed them in his pockets. He needed to be next to Sherlock today, not doing time for assault on an officer. He turned to see Sally Donovan at the door, smirking as she held out a phone and continued obliviously, "It's for you."

Sherlock shot him a look as she reached for the phone; one that said she was fully capable of observing him whilst working and knew exactly where he'd contemplated placing his fist. He frowned back and clenched them harder as she took the phone from Donovan, answering with a simple, "Hello."

John couldn't hear what the voice on the other end of the phone said, but he and Lestrade both paid close attention when Sherlock said carefully, "Who is this? Is this you again?"

The voice on the other end began to speak again, incomprehensible squawking to John, but he and Lestrade looked at one another, and whatever was on John's face made Lestrade turn back to his computer, typing quicker than before.

Sherlock looked up suddenly, turning and examining the room. John did the same out of instinct, assessing exit routes and doing a quick head count to be sure no one had entered the area without his knowledge. When he looked back at Sherlock she was making a face as though she'd sucked on a lemon, but it smoothed away into calm detachment within a moment as she said to the phone, "You've stolen another voice, I see."

John sucked in a breath. Another person about to explode, then.

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked, and frowned to herself as she quickly followed with, "What's that noise?"

John watched as the voice on the other end said something that made Sherlock's face go stone-still, and then she blinked and thumbed the end call button just as Lestrade slammed his hands onto his desk with a, "Got it."

He started out the door as Sherlock followed, not letting John catch her eye. John frowned to himself, clasped his hands behind his back so he could feel the Browning under his jumper brushing against the back of his knuckles, and followed them both.

.

* * *

.

Sometimes John really did miss the desert, and he missed it fiercely as he trudged through the cold mud of the empty lot toward the car, which was sitting near the river._ As if it's not bad enough worrying about bombs when you're dry, it turns out it's even worse when you're wet,_ he thought, pointedly ignoring the fact that the Taliban had never made him this frustrated. He shivered again, not from the cold soaking his shoes but from the sheer _intimacy_ these threats held; somehow threats against London felt too much like threats against _home_. Threats against Afghanistan didn't have that potency.

Lestrade, stomping on ahead of them, had grabbed some notes from a uniformed officer and scanned them once quickly before Sherlock's pointed look started him talking.

"Hired yesterday by a city boy named Ian Monkford."

"City boy?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but Lestrade only nodded.

"Banker of some kind, paid in cash. Told his wife he was going on a business trip: never arrived."

Sherlock and Lestrade continued toward the car, but John got cut off by Donovan. He put his hands back in his pockets.

"You're still hanging 'round her," she said, and John seethed internally at the tone.

"Yes, well," he said shortly, making it a statement instead of the beginning of an answer.

"Opposites attract, I suppose," she continued as if she hadn't heard him.

"No, we're not..." _together_, John started to protest, then realized protesting he'd never be interested in Sherlock would not build the detective's reputation with the Met, and he let it lie. Donovan wasn't listening to a word he said, anyway; she was already continuing with her unwanted advice.

"You should get yourself a hobby. Stamps. Model trains. Something safer."

_Safer almost drove me to the barrel of my own gun,_ John though viciously to himself, and opened his mouth to say so, but Donovan had already stepped away to survey the car next to Lestrade.

John shut his mouth with a click and went to stand pointedly next to Sherlock, who had thrown open the driver's side door to look at... John peered in behind her, then sniffed. Yup, that was definitely blood all over the seat. Right. Good to know. Sherlock had apparently got past that conclusion and was now rifling through the glove box.

"It's Monkford's blood, before you ask - traffic tested it before I even ran the plates," Lestrade said when Sherlock looked up at him through the window. Only John, who had the better view from behind her, was able to see her filch a card from the glove box, as she was handily blocking Lestrade and Donovan's view with her head. Sherlock pulled herself back out of the car once the card was in her coat pocket. John figured he should call her out... then thought about Donovan and decided not to.

"No body," Sherlock stated after her keen eyes gave one last glance over the available evidence.

"Not yet," Sally shot back. Sherlock ignored her, turning to Lestrade instead.

"Get a sample sent to the lab," was all she said, and after a nod from Lestrade, she walked away. John followed, wondering about the card in her pocket.


	9. Chapter 9

John thought they'd be heading back to get a taxi, but instead Sherlock headed toward a woman standing near the edge of the crime scene tape. As they walked over Sherlock started to sniffle, and John looked at her in surprise to see she was tearing up. "You okay?"

Sherlock nodded, forcing some of the tears in her eyes to fall onto her cheeks. By this time they'd reached the woman, and John figured he'd better just shut up until he knew what the hell was going on. _Always one step behind._

"Mrs. Monkford?" Sherlock asked tremulously, playing up the waver in her voice. John wanted to roll his eyes, but stopped himself in time.

"Yes?" replied Mrs. Monkford, who sniffled and looked at the two of them, then frowned slightly. "You're not police."

"No," agreed John, but was interrupted by Sherlock.

"I just couldn't believe it - I came as soon as I could - I was supposed to introduce John to Ian tomorrow! He was so happy for our engagement, you know," she sobbed in a great burst, while John attempted every acting trick he knew to attempt to look sympathetic instead of shocked.

Mrs Monkford, on the other hand, didn't try to hide her confusion. "I'm sorry, who are you?"

Sherlock held out a shaking hand. "Sherlock Holmes. Very old friend of your husband's. We, ah -" she paused to sniffle, and John took a moment to think, _Bloody actress_, before she continued, "We grew up together."

"I'm sorry, who?" Mrs Monkford looked confused and a bit put out. "I don't think he ever mentioned you."

"Oh, no, he must have done! I just saw him the other day - same old Ian - not a care in the world..." Sherlock gave Mrs Monkford a faltering smile, letting her lower lip tremble. John remembered standing at attention in the army when someone farted, and how he'd learned to hold the laughter in until after he was dismissed. He used the same technique now.

"Sorry, but my husband had been depressed for months! Who _are_ you?" Mrs Monkford accused, but Sherlock dismissed the question.

"Really strange, you know, him hiring a car," she sniffled, "Why would he do that? Bit suspicious, yeah?"

Mrs Monkford frowned. "No, it_ isn't_. He forgot to renew the tax on the car, is all!"

"Oh well that was Ian!" Sherlock sighed. "That was Ian all over."

"No, it _wasn't_!" Mrs Monkford shot back, and John watched in amazement as Sherlock's act dropped off her face like she'd flipped a switch.

"Wasn't it? Interesting," she snapped, and turned away. John followed her quickly before Mrs Monkford could ask him any questions, but he could hear her pulling aside an officer behind them, asking the uniform who they were.

"Why did you lie to her?" he asked when they were at a safe distance.

"People don't like telling you things, but they love to contradict you," Sherlock explained as she pulled off a glove to wipe at her face. "Past tense, did you notice?"

"Sorry, what?" John asked, blinking twice.

"I referred to her husband in the past tense. She joined in," Sherlock explained. "It's a bit premature. They've only just found the car today."

"You... think she murdered her husband?" John ventured, but before he'd finished the question, Sherlock was shaking her head.

"Definitely not. That's not a mistake a murderer would make."

"I see," John replied, then shook his head and corrected himself. "No, I don't! What am I seeing?"

Sherlock didn't answer; instead, she walked up to the road and raised an arm for a taxi.

"Did she suggest fishing?" Sherlock asked as she slid into her side of the car. John blinked at her in surprised, then realized what she meant.

"Ah, no. Model trains and stamps. You know we're down to six hours?" he asked her, and she nodded. "What did you find in the glove compartment?" he prompted, sliding into his side of the cab.

"This," Sherlock said, pulling out the business card and twirling it between her fingertips. She leaned forward to the cabbie. "Janus Cars, please."

* * *

When they arrived at Janus Cars, they were ushered into a small office by a rather good-looking secretary. John got distracted watching him walk away, and turned back in time to hear the manager - Mr Ewert, according to the placard on his desk - say to Sherlock, "I don't see how I can help you, though."

"Um, Mr Monkford hired the car from you, yesterday?" John asked, and Ewert leaned back.

"Yeah, heh. Lovely motor. Mazda RX-8. Wouldn't mind one of those myself!"

John nodded as if he knew something about cars, as Sherlock walked round to Ewert's side of the desk to point out the window. "Is that one?" she asked, tilting her head coquettishly. Ewert leered up at her, then leaned forward to try to see out the window. John noticed Sherlock examining him as he looked out to see the car she was pointing to.

"No," Ewert said, settling back down. "They're all Jags. But then, I suppose you wouldn't know much about cars."

Sherlock shook her head and smiled sweetly. "No, I'm afraid I don't. But, I mean, you can probably afford one, right? A Mazda, I mean?"

"True," Ewert said, glancing at John and taking in his ragged jacket, then grinning up at Sherlock at the chance to show off. John sighed silently. It seemed he was playing the fall guy today. "But it's kind of like working in a sweetshop. You start eating the liquorice allsorts, you don't know when to stop." He scratched at his arm as he ogled Sherlock openly. John's fist itched.

"But you didn't know Mr Monkford?" John interrupted, bringing the attention back to him, and Ewert frowned at him as he answered.

"No, he was just a client. Came in, hired one of my cars - no idea what happened to him." He glanced up at Sherlock, then added as an afterthought, "Poor sod."

John snorted inwardly. Sherlock was exactly the sort to not give a damn about post-loss sympathy.

"Did you have a nice holiday, Mr Ewert?" Sherlock asked suddenly, still playing up her overly-friendly persona.

"Eh?" the man asked, looking back at her quickly.

"You've been away, haven't you?" she tilted her head and motioned to him, and he grinned.

"Oh, the tan. No, it's, er, sunbeds I'm afraid. Too busy to get away. Would love it, though. Bit of sun, the beach."

John knew exactly what Mr Ewert was picturing. He wasn't sure how to feel about it. Well, he knew how _he_ felt about it, and he knew how Mr Ewert felt about it, but he knew he didn't like how Mr Ewert felt about it.

"Have you got any change for the cigarette machine?" Sherlock switched topics suddenly, and Ewert blinked.

"What?"

"Well, I noticed one on the way in, and I haven't got any change... I'm gasping!" And Sherlock _fluttered her eyelashes_. Which was_ just disconcerting_, if you asked John.

"Um, well," Mr Ewert was completely flustered, flipping through his wallet. "Um, no. Sorry."

"Oh, well." Sherlock pouted. "Thank you very much for your time. You've been very helpful!" And then, just like before, the persona dropped, and she turned to John. "Come on, John."

John breathed a sigh of relief as they left and started back across the lot in front of the building. "I've got change if you still..."

"Nicotine patches, John," Sherlock told him. "I'm doing well."

"So why...?"

"I needed to look inside his wallet," Sherlock said, and grinned at him.

"Why?" John prompted, beginning to get a little annoyed with having to ask for every step of the way.

"Mr Ewert's a liar," Sherlock answered, and waved for a taxi.


End file.
